And saw her lying there, pale, soiled and splashed
And miserable; on her cheek a stain,
A dull red bruise, made when his mad hand dashed
And struck her to the stones; the wretched rain
Dripped from her dark hair; and her hands were gashed.—
Oh, for a musket or a petronel
With which to send his devil's soul to hell!
VII
But helpless there I lay, no weapon near,
Only the useless sword I could not reach